Read Online The Children of Old Leech: A Tribute to the Carnivorous Cosmos of Laird Barron by Ross E. Lockhart, Justin Steele - Free Book Online

pit of my stomach, but enough that I might have thrown the overwrought bit of paper—with its wax seals and calligraphic script—in the trash, had it not been for the mention of Muybridge. The old photographer fascinated Nicky, and I was happy for anything that got Nicky’s attention onto something I found interesting.
    The cars deposited us on the foot of the steps leading up to the Brocken Hotel. The building had once been a TV tower, maybe the oldest one in the world, built before World War II. It had transmitted the first live broadcast of the Summer Olympics in Berlin. The war didn’t do it any favors, and when the new tower was built they converted the old one into a hotel. The only thing left to mark its former function was the golf-ball-like radome that crouched on the roof and held air traffic control equipment.
    The lights that had looked so tiny from the train were dazzling up close, but the tower that rose above us, with its tiny windows and the radome on top, reminded me of something from a futuristic prison. Not terribly inviting, as Nicky had said.
    Inside, however, the hotel proved to be as luxurious as it had appeared Spartan from without. Red carpets, crystal chandeliers, gilt everything else. We were shown into an enormous ballroom where a projector and screen were set up in pride of place, with couches and divans arrayed for our viewing pleasure. The artwork that normally hung along the walls had been removed, and in its place were easels draped in black cloth. All part of the night’s festivities, I assumed.
    I knew that Henri himself had dabbled in painting once, when he was younger. I’d never seen the results, but I’d heard that at his best he’d mostly just knocked off Goya. At Henri’s one and only gallery opening a critic was apparently overheard to remark, “If you’ve seen everything Goya ever did, and you still want more, then Henri’s the man to talk to,” though whether that was intended as condemnation or praise, I couldn’t say. By the time Nicky and I met him, he’d already given it up, but his passion for the arts remained a constant throughout his life, so I wasn’t exactly surprised to see the easels there.
    The man himself was there too, playing the good host and glad-handing his guests as they entered. He looked much as he had the last time I’d seen him, which was also much as he had the first time I’d seen him, though now his hair and beard were grayer, and the tiredness that was supposedly driving his retirement could be seen in the corners of his eyes, even as they sparkled as ever with his smile. The years had made him seem distinguished, rather than old, as they were kind enough to do for some people, and he wore his age well.
    He kissed Nicky’s hand, shook mine, and then he and Nicky were flirting again—Nicky always was flirtatious, Henri always shameless—and then Henri had drifted away to talk to one of the other guests. “It’ll be some time before the festivities start,” he said over his shoulder as he departed. “The witching hour, and all that. One of the servants can show you to your room, if you’d like to freshen up.”
    The “servants” were men in coats-and-tails, wearing shapeless papier mâché masks that made them look a bit like disfigured corpses. I knew from previous revels that under the masks I would find invariably young, attractive men, paid well for their forbearance and their discretion.
    One of these broke off to escort Nicky and me to our rooms, which were next to each other and connected by an adjoining door. Henri, gracious and accommodating to the last. The rooms were as sumptuously appointed as one might expect, except for the narrow, slit-like windows that were the lasting testament of the building’s former function. “There’s an observation deck on the roof,” the faceless “servant” told me when he saw that I was eyeing the window with some distaste. “It provides a much better view.”
    I sat down on the